


A Tongue Of Knowledge In The Feathered Night

by ruric



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Nyctophobia, Phobia ficathon, achluophobia, fear of darkness, fear of the night, scotophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-07
Updated: 2005-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsey treats the night with respect and suspicion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tongue Of Knowledge In The Feathered Night

He wasn't _always_ afraid.

If he concentrates he _can_ remember the times before.

Remember when the sun easing out of the sky, as daylight slid into dusk, didn't send a breath of unease across his skin, causing all the hair on his arms to raise and the back of his neck to prickle in warning. Remember when the fall of true night didn't send shiver after shiver of fear rippling down his spine.

He _can_ remember when darkness closing in meant nothing more than the end of a long day spent playing outside in the woods and fields that surrounded the house. Back then all night heralded was the rough and tumble of games and laughter with his brothers and sisters, followed by time spent curled up on the couch or on the worn old rug on top of a bunch of pillows, the fire hissing and spitting, heavy scent of cedar and apple wood on the air, listening to his momma tell stories or his daddy sing and play the fiddle.

But if he starts to think about _those_ times then he remembers the night it all started.

The splintering of the wood, the tearing sound as the door was wrenched from its frame by the blows rained on it from outside. His daddy jumping to his feet, standing square in front of the men who burst into the room, men armed with baseball bats, with the dull metallic glint of brass on their knuckles.

His momma's fingers knotting into the thin cotton of his shirt, her nails cutting into the tender flesh of his shoulder. The soft, wet sounds of the blows landing on his daddy's face, the hiss of air whistling through his daddy's teeth and the groan as the bat landed. The screams of his sisters hiding behind his momma and the whimper of his brother, the tearing sobs his momma made.

Pulling free of her hand, running across the room grabbing the wrist of one of the men and sinking his teeth into it. The blaze of pain from the blow he took across the side of his face, bones crunching, his cheek cutting on his teeth. The first time in his life he tasted blood and fear at the back of his throat.

He was seven.

Tonight with the children brought it all back.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * 

He treats the night with respect and suspicion.

If he works late he pulls the blinds in his office so he doesn't have to look out at the scatter of light on the skyline. He makes sure security knows he's in the building, he always carries a torch in his briefcase. He parks in the underground garage so he can walk through well lit levels to get to his car, rather than venture onto the street outside.

His fear of the dark is the reason he's _never_ let any of his lovers stay the night, not even Lilah. Too difficult to explain why a man of his age can't sleep without leaving a light on, too many questions to be asked about why he so often wakes screaming. It's why he's begun to close himself off from everyone even though he knows it been noticed. Pointed and barbed comments about why he never brings _anyone_ to the firm's events he can deal with. Even Lilah's enmity he can deal with. Giving Wolfram and Hart and advantage over him? Not gonna happen.

The further he progresses the more of a handicap his crippling fear becomes. He can't seek help – he's not naïve enough to believe they don't keep tabs on their rising stars. To consult a therapist, a shaman, whoever, would turn a barely hinted at problem into a very concrete weakness and he won't give them that kind of power over him.

And tonight with the children brought it all back. 

Blood in his mouth as she lifted and threw him against the wall, knowing he was hopelessly outmatched and hoping like hell Angel could beat her. The children shivering within the circle of his arms, cowering close to him for protection. His realization of how fragile the protection he could offer was.

Too close to home, too many memories.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * 

Driving away from the safe house, sitting beside Angel, the top down, the wind in his hair, the night closing in around him, its dark embrace setting his heart speeding.

Angel's shooting puzzled glances his way and he knows he should say something, do something to break the silence stretching tautly between them. Looking over at the dark figure beside him, he's pushed to the point where he can't keep quiet any longer.

"Yes? What?"

"I can smell things Lindsey – love, hate, loss of hope, despair, arousal, fear."

"Well, aren't you the lucky one." 

Shifting in his seat as Angel parks the car, turning to look at the vampire, because he won't give ground, not to Wolfram and Hart or to Angel either.

"I smell fear, Lindsey. I smell it all over you."

Lindsey's lips curve into a bitter smile as he holds the dark gaze which rests on him.

"I'm not afraid of you Angel…"

"What are you afraid of?"

He knows he shouldn't say anything, knows it's a huge mistake, but this is one secret he's carried too long and it's eating him alive.

"The night, darkness…"

The words are mumbled, his hand on the car door, pushing it open as he climbs out, expecting to hear Angel's laughter or words of mockery following him. What he doesn't expect is to find Angel sliding across the seats, clambering out after him, find a hand on his arm, stopping him leaving, to have words whispered into his ear as Angel leans into him.

"I can make it go away."

Stepping back so fast he almost falls over his own feet, looking up into brown eyes, eyes holding a challenge as well as knowledge.

"What's it going to be Lindsey? Can you carry on living with the fear? Do you think the cure might be worse than the disease? Stay or go – it's your choice."

He's not sure why he's following Angel into the building, he doesn't trust Angel, hell he doesn't trust _anyone_ , but after tonight? After tonight he _believes_ Angel. And something sparked to life the first time Angel touched him in Winters' office, tucking the card back into his pocket, palm resting flat against his chest for just a second too long. He needs to know what that _something_ is, needs to know what kind of fucked up mind game Angel is playing.

Conscious as they walk through the building, that Angel is leading, switching on the lights, waiting for him to pass, before turning them off and that kindness burns him more than any words of mockery or sympathy could have. It sets his blood racing and a snarl gnawing in the pit of his belly.

Through the offices, into the elevator and down to Angel's living quarters and the snarl is growing, his vision hazing red because he resents having to depend on the kindness of others. The snick of the elevator doors closing behind them is loud and he's not sure who moves first, Angel's hands close over his shoulders as he turns, his own fingers fisting in the soft silk of Angel's shirt.

Fingers sliding from shoulders to run though his hair, cradling his skull as Angel's mouth takes his and the analytical part of his mind, the little voice that got him through law school, that lets him work at Wolfram and Hart, is busy cataloging the physical and physiological differences in kissing a vampire.

He doesn't need the little voice to tell him, because his body is signaling loud and clear, spots dancing behind his closed eyes, the roaring of blood in his ears, his knees threatening to cut out and lungs about to implode because whilst Angel might not need to pause for a breath, he sure as hell does.

Palms flatten against a silk shirt, his harshly panted breaths are loud as they manage an ungraceful stumble towards the bedroom, both of their hands pulling at shirts, popping buttons, and reaching for belt buckles.

It's been a while and he doesn't fight his body on this, his head coming up at Angel's dark laugh even as the heat builds in his belly, builds between them. 

The silk of Angel's shirt soft and slippery in his hands as it slides to the floor. The cotton of his own shirt discarded, as Angel strips it from him, and pauses, lifts the shirt sniffing at the bloodstains on the front, the pink flicker of his tongue as he tastes them, fastidious as a cat licking at cream.

Clothes are stripped from bodies as they tumble onto the silk sheets spread out on the ornate wooden bed. This is the closest he's been to making out for years, hands sliding over his skin, hot and hungry to be touched. He's exploring the ridges of muscle and bone in return, wondering if the skin beneath his fingers is warm because Angel has fed recently - wondering if it will cool later in the night. Pushing the questions aside, blocking them out - because they'll be there later, there tomorrow, but for now there is this. The way Angel twitches when he presses just so on his hip, the rumbled growl when his teeth graze over a nipple.

Not fighting as Angel explores with hands and teeth and lips, pressing up, his own fingers greedy for skin, for the reactions he's getting. Too long since he touched someone, anyone and felt them respond. Angel's mouth on his again and no taste of blood, just hunger and want and need.

He's surprised to find he doesn't fight as Angel takes each wrist, each ankle and wraps them in silk, fastening them to the bed. Angel's mouth and hands returning, moving over him until he's biting down on his lip, determined not to ask, not to beg for what he needs. Doesn't even mind when Angel's tongue slides between his lips, that he can see both laughter and hunger dancing in the brown eyes that stare down at him.

Angel's mouth maps a path down his body - teeth grazing at belly and hip, fingers wrapping round his cock, his hips lifting and pushing up into the hand that cradles him so carefully. Eyes closed, riding out the sensations, trying to get a grip on the hunger tearing through him, pulling against the silk because he needs to touch, to feel, to taste in return. 

Fingers slide from his body, the bed shifting as Angel moves away. He forces his eyes open to see Angel standing and moving to the door, smile going feral as he flips the switch and the room is plunged into darkness.

One heartbeat, two and then Lindsey's fighting the silk that binds him, his skin crawling with fear. His breathing rapid and harsh, panted sobs, biting down until he tastes blood. Fighting the scream trying to claw its way out of his throat, desperate to keep it trapped behind his teeth, not going to give Angel the satisfaction... knowing the vampire will be feeding off the fear rolling off him.

His muscles lock, eyes wide open and gritty, tearing and burning as he strives to see, to distinguish shadows in the utter blackness of the room. There's a whisper of movement and a soft chuckle that is absolutely _not_ Angel.

Body shivering, sweat breaking out on his skin, and he's fucking out of his mind to ever have thought this was sane. 

He freezes, immobile as a deer caught in headlights, as fingers close around his ankles and the bed shifts once again under Angel's weight. Hands move up his calves, thumbs pressing into the delicate skin behind his knees, pushing his legs wider.

A whisper of breath against his thigh and the graze of teeth, teeth long and pointed and razor sharp are pressed into his skin. Lindsey's breath hisses out loud in the silence of the room. Teeth break through his skin, drawing blood, the swipe of a tongue lapping at the wetness on his thigh and he can feel Angel's lips curving into a smile against his skin.

"Afraid of me _now_ Lindsey?"

"No."

And it's true, because the feeling curling in the pit of his belly has nothing to do with fear at all. He locks his fingers round the silk, heels digging into the mattress as he presses up into Angel's mouth.

Teeth graze their way up his body in countless nips and tiny bites and he's hungry for more, needing more, until Angel's weight covers him, until he can lean up, his cheek brushing Angel's jaw, tilting his head so he can lick at the lips so close to his own. Slide his tongue between, to trace first one long fang, brushing across the razor sharp smaller teeth to lick at the other fang. Blood on his tongue from the sharpness of those teeth, but it's blood shared willingly.

He pulls away again, needing to breathe, his head tilting a little, neck revealed, knowing _exactly_ what he's offering, intrigued to see whether it'll be accepted as teeth graze his neck. Risk now irrelevant, his own lips move down until the meat of Angel's shoulder is beneath his mouth. Angel's fangs pressing into his neck at the same time as Angel's hips shift and press, the pain from the slow burn of his body being breached echoed in the aching drag in his neck. Lindsey's lips pull back, hissed breath lost as he bites down into flesh and feels it give beneath his teeth.

Blood for blood, bite for bite, thrusts given and received.

Angel's fingers tug the silk loose, his hands moving trailing ribbons of silk, his fingers knotting into soft brown hair as his teeth bite deeper. The boundary between pleasure and pain is crossed and re-crossed until Lindsey can't distinguish between them, doesn't care which is which, only knows _this_ is what he needs.

The burning ache from the teeth in his neck is matched by the throbbing of his cock as his body convulses beneath Angel.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * 

Pulling the doors closed, he turns to look at the empty office, placing the phone carefully on the desk as he settles into the chair.

Lindsey turns, chin resting on his fingers, looking out of the vast windows at the brilliant lights of the city at night.

Twenty years of living in fear and it took Angel to cure him.

He's no longer afraid but knows there's a debt - a debt written in blood and sweat, pain and pleasure - a debt which will one day be called in.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sweptawaybayou's](http://sweptawaybayou.livejournal.com/) Phobia Ficathon.


End file.
